They’re Not Called Wieners For Nuthin’

They’re called wieners, for a damn good reason and as the old adage goes, it’s without saying,”When the hot dog is out of the bun don’t play with it!”

Growing up in an inner city full of drugs, gangs, guns, and then some was a wild ride and as young teenagers growing up in Plainfield, NJ we were just as wild in our humorous ways. It was nothing unusual to fall fast asleep in one of your friends’ houses and be quickly awaken out of a deep slumber and find yourself walking through Menlo Park Mall with your face covered in makeup (I’m talking lipstick, blush, and eyeshadow applied to your face while you are fast asleep on a friend’s couch, etc.). LOL!

Yes, you’re abruptly awaken, then told you will be left if you’re not outside, “Right now!” Around twenty minutes later you’re walking in the mall with a group of your friends trying to be cool for the ladies even though you unknowingly look Rupal’s half she-male sister who didn’t quite make the cut. Every time you, you see a group of fine looking females walking past you –you can’t quite get over the fact why everyone is smiling or laughing so hard tears are literally pouring down their eyes (On hindsight, you can Thank your Heavenly Father that Camera phones were yet to be invented.)

Regardless to the aforementioned, you continue to strut alongside your crew only to find out later that you were the day’s buffoon. Hell, it happens. We were young wild and had thick skins when it came to joking around. Nothing was off limits. We did everything from painting fingernails to pouring hot sauce in every open mouth that invited us in. We even went to such extremes as to having Firework Wars on the 4th, on West 3rd Street from Clinton Street to Grant Ave (HAVE YOU ever been hit in the chest with a fiery ball from a Roman Candle?) I think not. What’s so crazy is that no one ever got hurt during these times.

Moving forward, touching the topic at hand is the subject of weiners. Yes, the sexual innuendos inferred by the use of the word wieners is exactly what defined us as men. As luck would have it one summer night during the late eighties My little brother Artis and a few friends were hanging out late at our home on 3rd and a friend of ours named Byron opened the fridge. Fate must have met his genius because an idea hit him like lightning and entered his diabolical humorous side as he proceeded to take one of the hotdogs from within the packaging. Entering the living room, a lot of whispering took place and the plan was set. The victim of the night would be a friend named Shuquan who had the unfortunate fate of falling asleep before the rest of us. Standing behind the couch was my younger brother Artist who proceeded in rubbing the wiener on the lips of Shuquan as if a man was about to gearing up for some of the best oral action in life. Containing one’s laughter during a time like this was agony in itself because the laughter was so intense your lungs felt as if they could explode at any time.

Anyway, as Artis vigorously rubbed that wiener on the lips of Shuquan …Byron stood akimbo directly in front of him having a huge Cheshire grin with his wiener hanging happily out.

Waking up to one hellacious, nightmarish site that any straight guy would have, Shuquan’s eyes lit up like two 100 watt light bulbs beaming throughout darkness. Filled with rage he began to lurch forward like a raging bull until my little brother yelled out, “Yo chill out! It’s a hot dog my nigga!”

Right then and there, Shuquan’s anger ceased as though his flames were put out just as the fire department puts out a small flame that didn’t quite get the umph it needed to spread abroad as the rest of us cried aloud laughing, wheezing and gasping for air as though we we’re a a group of bad asthmatics at a cigar convention.

Well, at the end of the day this is my true story and I’m sticking to it. Hope you enjoyed it as much as we did then. LOL!

P.S.

Here’s a word of advice…Keep those wieners burning on the grill and not in your pants.

About The Author

A hip-hop recording artist, convict, father, and now urban author (Who Am I: The Chronicles of Cain, Caught Slippin, and Explain It To Her Mama), the managing editor of Urban.me and Urban refuge. In the '90s he was the first rapper to appear on the covers Black Beat and Teen Machine magazines, known at MC Cheese he recorded Phenomenal, Third Street, Angel of Death, Dime a Dozen, Come on Everybody.